The 32nd Hunger Games
by HalfSun
Summary: May the odds be EVER in your favor. Not for me. The 32nd Hunger Games are here, and I am going to compete in them.


My legs swing back and forth as I sit on the rooftop, eyes half-closed. The day is just beginning, with the sky turning gold and orange with swirls of pink and creamy white flecks of clouds here and there. I take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the new day, knowing that the hours ahead will be the exact opposite, that they will be horrible. Absolutely horrible.

The 32nd Hunger Games aren't happening until two, but my heart is already beating faster than normal. Just the thought of it makes me dig my fingernails into the shingles of the roof that's on the ramshackle house we live in. Seven hours. Only seven hours before we learn what the Capitol has desived in store for us, for the tributes. I am hoping desperately that I won't be chosen, and that my older brother won't be reaped either.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and slowly the beautiful creamy, rich hues of the sunrise are replaced with clear, forget-me-not blues. It would be a wonderful day, if it weren't for the reaping.

"Aven! Come down here!"

My mother's voice sounds from the house, but I ignore her. I always do. Instead I keep my gaze fixtated on the sky, watching as the sun rises over the treetops, as the sky turns into that lovely shade of blue that summers are known for.

"Aven! Do I need to repeat myself?"

Silently, I slide off the edge of the roof, fingers clutching the shingles as my feet brush against the ground. I always listen to my mother the second time, but never before. Slowly, I push open the wooden door and walk into the house.

My mother is busy peeling potatoes. She does that sometimes when she's worried. The faster she peels, the more anxious she is. Right now her fingers fly over the brown vegetable, silver knife expertly slicing off the peel. Her mouth is twisted into a frown, and wrinkles crease her sunburned forehead. Her brown hair lays limp over her shoulders, tangled and knotted.

I stand there for a moment, watching my mother move onto yet another potato. It's amazing, really, to see how many potatoes she can get through. So far it's about two or three a minute, which only shows how worried she is about the Hunger Games.

Finally, she glances up from her work, and smiles a little when she sees me. "Aven! On the roof again?"

"Yes." I flop down on the bed. "Peeling potatoes again?"

"Why not?"

I roll over, my stomach pressing against the mattress. "What do you think they'll do for the Hunger Games this year?"

"Probably something absolutely crazy." Mother turns back to her potatoes again, and I notice that she's sped up, just a little bit.

"Definitely." I look at the door. It's open, my brother standing at the entrance. He's holding a bag filled with something that keeps moving around. A huge grin is plastered on his face. "By the way, guess what I have?"

Mother snorts. "Not another chicken! You've really got to stop stealing those. Put it on the table, Will."

Will looks offended. "I didn't steal it - not technically."

I raise an eyebrow.

Will puts one hand up, the other gently placing the squirming bundle on the table. "Fine, fine. I bought it from a guy who stole it. Happy?"

"Not really."

Mother sighs, her hand just a blur as she furiously peels the potatoes. "It's almost two. Get in your best clothes."

"Fine." I drop to my knees, hands on the ground as I peer under my bed. I can make out a few faint shapes among all the dust bunnies. Reaching a hand in, I grunt as I flatten myself to the floor, fingers brushing against something. Curling my hand around, I yank it out, and I see that I have retrieved a dress, though admittedly not my best one.

"That old thing?" Mother scoffs. "Get your yellow one, the one you got for Christmas."

My ears burn. "I lost it."

Mother glares at me, green eyes burning with disappointment. "Then get out your red one."

"I lost that one too."

Mother huffs. "Fine... Just get in something! Then get out!"

I slip the dress over myself and rush out, stumbling over the edge of the dress. I skid to a halt in the Square, where the Peacekeepers glare at us as they shepherd us into our age groups. I'm put in with all the other 14 year olds, where most of us aknowledge the others with a slight nod, while others stare defiantly at the Peacekeepers.

We wait patiently for the mayor of District 12 to arrive. After several minutes, he does, his face bright red with embarrasment and drops of sweat rolling down his pudgy face. He is panting, and his hands keep moving to his face to reposition the glasses.

"So sorry," he mutters. "Lateness, there's no excuse for lateness, so sorry!" He wipes the sweat from his forehead and looks at the cameras positioned on the rooftops.

"Ahem," he coughs, then steps up onto the podium that's been placed on a stage at the front of the crowd, along with two large glass balls. The mayor taps the microphone on the podium to get the audience's attention.

This is the part where I let my mind wander and when I ignore the mayor. Mostly because right now, he's reading the Treaty of Treason, possibly the most boring piece of writing that has _ever _been printed.

"...And now, for the reaping of 32nd Hunger Games!" My mind snaps back to the mayor.

A woman trots onto the stage. Her bright purple hair is pulled back into an insanely curly ponytail, and her mascara goes all the way to her eyebrows. She curtsies in a poofy, pale blue dress. This is Trixibelle Flinger.

"Hello, everyone! How are you doing today?" Trixibelle's voice is impossibly high. "Are you excited for the Hunger Games?" She flashes a smile. Her teeth have little gold carvings in them that make the sun look dull. "Are you ready for the reaping?"

No one responds.

Trixibelle looks slightly crestfallen at this, but quickly moves on. "Now," she says, "we begin the reaping!" She gestures to the glass balls. "Ladies first!" She sticks her arm in a ball, rummaging through the slips of paper.

Finally, she yanks it out, a slightly crumpled piece of paper clutched between her fingers. "And the lucky tribute is..." She pauses for dramatic effect and beams at the crowd.

I find that my hands are trembling like an earthquake, and my knees knock together. My left hand runs through my hair, an old nervous habit, while my feet tap against the ground. My mouth moves in a silent prayer.

"Aven Sunfield!"


End file.
